


A Necessary Sin.

by TheMalhamBird



Series: Happy Death Day Richard II (fics for Feb 14) [1]
Category: 14th Century CE RPF, Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Post-Deposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: January, 1400. Richard of Bordeaux sits in prison entirely unaware that a rebellion was formed in his name and then put down- but if it's the only way they can convince King Henry that his predecessor needs to go, then Bolingbroke's supporters will offer him proof of the former King's involvement  by any means necessary.
Series: Happy Death Day Richard II (fics for Feb 14) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632724
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	A Necessary Sin.

**Author's Note:**

> A large chunk of this has already been posted on tumblr, because I initially intended it to form the first chapter of a fic where Richard and Henry get married. The chapter, however, had ideas of its own and turned itself in to a stand alone fic (helped along by marriage fic!Richard deciding to accept Bolingbroke's proposal almost five months earlier than he was supposed to but that is, quite literally, another story now- or at least it will be) Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this fuller-length version as much as you enjoyed the other one, if not more...

The tunnels beneath Pontefract Castle reach deep into the bowels of the earth, warrens of black misery containing cells hewn out of rock and iron doors like cages to keep the miserable wretches they contained from trying to flee, loosing themselves, and starving beneath the hilltops. Or so Richard is often told by his gaolers, whenever they think him insufficiently grateful for the tiny room at the top of the castle tower. Never mind that his single window is always covered by shutters; that his wrists and ankles are bound in irons that rub away at the flesh they enclose; that it is as comfortable- and far warmer- for the former King to take a blanket and curl up in the hearth to sleep after his meagre fire is doused each night than it is for him to lie on the ropes of a narrow bed covered in sacking that must, at one time, have contained straw but has lost it all to mice or rot. His position could be worse, if he is not careful- will be worse, if he does not mind his manners, if the guards are having a bad day, if Sir Thomas is feeling bored or vengeful, if the few of his friends who remain do something to displease the great Harry the Fourth. Richard has lost track of the days, somewhat, but he thinks it is some time near the Feast of the Epiphany. It is past Christmas, he knows; they let him hear Mass and he had sobbed with relief to partake of the Eucharist once more- but they have not let him have a chaplain since, for all his pleading with Sir Robert, and though he has tried to keep track of the days, he thinks his calculations may have gone awry. It is not as though his existence has anything like a routine, anymore, except that he routinely finds himself wishing it were possible to expire from sheer boredom- but he cannot tell how long a day is. After all, it is not as though his fire is always doused each night or relit each morning: sometimes it is left alone to die, and sometimes Richard is left alone to shiver. And it is not as though he can count the days by marking off each breakfast or dinner: there is sometimes both, or sometimes only one, and sometimes neither- though of course, he cannot say with certainty that it is he that is being deprived of food, and not time that is being deprived of all progression.

But he thinks he sleeps more, of late; it is an effort to make himself rise from the hearth and stumble to lay down on the bed, and more of an effort to drag himself back; he has, of late, gone hungry more often than not, and his lips are cracked and bleeding with thirst. When the guards come for him, seizing him by the arms and dragging him along so that his bare feet scrape painfully against the stones. He tries to get his feet properly under him, though his movements are restricted by his shackles, and blinks rapidly to try and clear his vision of the lights that have blossomed in front of his eyes. The headache, he has had for several days now, and does not go anywhere- though his sight, somewhat bleary, returns as he is marched down and down and down the spiral staircase, and hauled into a room he thinks might be the warden’s solar as the guards haul him inside and shove him on to a stool. The stool is opposite a desk; on the opposite side of the desk Sir Thomas Swynford looms, and Richard does not think it a good thing that Pontefract’s governor is away from his stepbrother’s Court, and here in person. There is parchment on the desk- a quill- the room is too well lit, and it hurts Richard’s eyes. He squeezes them tightly shut, and when he opens them again, Swynford is pouring wine into a goblet and pushing it across to him. “Drink,” he orders curtly. Richard takes it without hesitation and downs it without stopping. It is bitter, vinegary swill. The taste is foul enough to mask the foulest poison- and Richard cannot bring himself to care. It burns his throat, but it wets his tongue- dampens his thirst just a little. He sets the goblet down and Swynford swipes it, pouring out a second cup. “And again,” he barks. Richard looks up at him. There is anger in his face, and it deepens as Richard hesitates, and so Richard picks up the goblet again and takes a sip. The room, he is beginning to realise, is unusually full of guards, and Sir Robert stands at the window, his back to the proceedings. For all he is in the room, he will be able to swear he saw nothing untoward, if he should ever need to be asked. Richard finds himself growing afraid and raises the wine back to his lips with a trembling hand. Swynford’s eyes bore holes into his face and Richard’s cheeks warm. He occupies himself with finishing the wine he has been given and is rather sorry when it is gone. His head is buzzing. A few more glasses and he could pass out, and be spared whatever is about to happen next.

Swynford picks up the pen and slams it on to the parchment. “Sign,” he orders.

Richard takes the pen and pulls the parchment towards him. “It’s blank,” he says hesitantly, and Swynford smiles thinly.

“A blank charter, my lord,” he says, and Richard flinches.

“What for?” he asks. His head is buzzing. It’s so hot and stuffy in this room, with the roaring fire, all the candles.”

“That’s really not any of your concern.” Swynford says, and he sounds almost gentle. “Sign the paper, Richard, and then I’ll have them bring you something to eat. Aren’t you hungry?”

Richard is hungry. Hungry enough that he has grown used to his stomach growling. Not hungry enough to not realise that this is a trap of some kind, that they will put his name to something they may very well use to justify killing him, but there are, he supposes, worse things that could happen than his own execution. He might, for example, have to live out another full thirty years of life locked away in a single room, trying to guess whether it is Michaelmas or Eastertide, and he realises in a single moment of clarity that he doesn’t care anymore. The worst is death, and he fears he is living it already.

Richard picks up the pen, and carefully etches out his mark. Swynford watches with equal care and has to fight back a smirk when he sees exactly how the former King has written out his name.

The man’s writing is shaky, uneven- almost childlike in it’s careful print. It will, in all likelihood, be the last thing Richard ever writes. Richard sets the pen down and folds his hands nearly in his lap, head bowed, and eyes fixed on the scrawl in the front of him. “Might I have something to eat now?” he asks quietly, and Swynford is hit with a sudden, unexpected rush of pity. The man has lived his life as a King robed in golden splendour- and he will die with less to his name than the meanest beggar, far from any creature that might care to offer him a comforting touch. Pity is followed by guilt. Guilt is followed by anger and Swynford snatches up the parchment. He has, he reminds himself, what he came for- a way to secure the safety of his stepbrother and his stepbrother’s children, a way to revenge himself on the man whose self-serving greed only exacerbated the Duchess of Lancaster’s grief at the loss of her husband.

“By all means,” he says coldly. “I daresay there are some slops intended for the castle pigs that could be spared for you instead.”

Richard barely flinches, and Swynford clenches his fist. He wants to be cruel. He wants the deposed tyrant punished- he wants him to suffer. The rational part of himself reminds him that Richard is suffering already- but it is not enough- it is never going to be enough-

Good _God,_ they would have killed the children. The boys, Blanche, and little Phillipa. For the sake of the piece of shit in front of him- “Strip him,” he finds himself saying. “Take him back to his cell- strip him- and beat him. And when he’s fed-“ He breaks off, eyes narrowing as Richard starts to laugh under his breath. “What?” he demands.

“What?” Richard asks, looking up at him. “Make me eat off the floor? Spit on the food before feeding it to me, eat most of it themselves before tossing me the scraps? You really think you can come up with something they haven’t already done?” There’s a certain sardonic gleam to his eyes, a hint of the tyrant shining through the hollow cheekbones of the prisoner. A few of the guards shift uncomfortably and Swynford glares.

“Get him out of my sight,” he orders, and the guards obey; Richard is hauled to his feet and taken off out of Swynford’s sight. Swynford glares after him until the door is closed, then picks up the pen himself and dips it in to the ink. “Everyone out,” he orders, and is obeyed. When the door closes again, and he is left completely alone he puts pen to paper and hesitates for a moment. What he is about to do is….

_Necessary._

He exhales and begins to write. It is a sin to fabricate a confession, to be sure, but surely the greater sin is to allow evil to flourish unchecked. If Henry is persuaded by this document - or at least, if Henry allows himself to pretend that he is persuaded by this document- then he may also be persuaded that it is best for the realm if Richard of Bordeaux be finally put out of all their misery. With him dead, there will be no more cause for rebellion, no more concern for Swynford to fear for the King’s safety—and England will be finally at peace.


End file.
